


The Worst Silence

by Leamas



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: M/M, ghosts in the metaphorical sense and otherwise, guilt and something like remorse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9292724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leamas/pseuds/Leamas
Summary: “I do love you,” he said – a pitiful excuse for what had happened, and so onto it he tacked, “If I could send help for you I would. But we both know how this works, don’t we?”





	

Far too late at night – or too early in the morning – Bill Haydon finally returned home and locked the door behind him. Although it was no longer evening he diligently walked himself through his usual evening routine until he reached the end of it, where he found himself alone in his kitchen with an empty glass in his hand. If he was incredibly lucky and fell asleep right now, he’d have four hours’ sleep before morning came, but he knew himself better than that, and had no false hopes that sleep would come so simply. Short of sleeping forever, Bill couldn’t imagine himself ever being well rested again.

Another drink, then, to ease the headache from the day before he attempted the impossible.

The previous night he had fallen into bed and naively expected sleep to find him quickly, only to find himself lying wide awake as though he hadn’t been awake for what had arguably been the most stressful two days of his life – if stressful were a word he felt best described his state of mind.

But what should he say instead? Agonising? Harrowing? Surely the days before had been more taxing on his sanity, as he waited and tried to picture what Jim was doing during the countdown to his death.

He hadn’t expected Jim to visit him before leaving, and whether that made things harder or easier he couldn’t say. Looking back now he regretted not watching after Jim as he left, stealing one final look to remember him by. They had both known, Bill was certain, looking back, that this was to be the last time they’d see each other. But perhaps it was only with hindsight that Bill caught on to this – after all, would he have been able to let Jim leave, had he known that this would be it?

Yes, he would have. He knew this about himself because it was what he had done. Whether he’d really committed himself to the idea that Jim really wouldn’t come back, he couldn’t say, but it didn’t matter anymore, did it? The possibility had always been there.

Oh, to hell with it – Jim was gone. Dead. He was long gone by now, and even if Bill might have wanted to reconsider his position now that the costs became personal – even if it hadn’t been too late for that years ago, long before any of this – there was nothing he could do for Jim as Jim was out of his reach. Their last conversation took place in this very kitchen, Bill standing where he stood now and Jim standing across the room from him. Their words had been strained, which was so unlike them. Bill was used to Jim’s hard, stony silence, but it came back with a confidence that everything that needed to be said would be. There was none of that in the strained silence between replies that he swore he could feel lingering, even now: an unspoken certainty, an unanswered question – something that needed to be said but now could never be.

At least, Bill thought now, as he poured another small drink, their silence extended to Jim’s departure. For a horrible moment when Jim had gripped his shoulder Bill thought that he’d say something, and that he would then be expected to reply, and there was simply nothing that he could say to counterbalance the horrible emptiness haunting their conversation. Anything Bill might have wanted to hear from Jim would be coming too late, never mind if there were any final words that Bill wanted to send Jim away with. He would have wanted to apologise, stupidly.

But he underestimated Jim. Jim squeezed his shoulder, and pulled their mouths together in a silent intimacy.

Well, that was over now. Jim was dead. His silence remained.

It wasn’t the comfortable silence that accompanied Jim’s departure, that Bill had taken to associating with him on the many long hours they spend together. Jim took that with him when he left, and instead left this wretched emptiness with Bill for safekeeping.

No, not empty, Bill decided. It was filled with an untold pressure, waiting for the floodgates to break.

“I am sorry,” Bill practiced saying out loud, although speaking made his throat sting.

He took a drink, and suddenly found himself reluctant to turn around. Bill should have known it was nothing, and perhaps he did, but for a fleeting moment he could have almost believed for a moment there that he might turn around and see Jim standing behind him.

With what look Jim would be looking at him, Bill couldn’t guess either. The silence created a buffer around Bill’s words until gradually, he found the memory of speaking them faded out. All that was left of them was the sting in his throat, and – damn it – pressure building in his nose.

“I do love you,” he said – a pitiful excuse for what had happened, and so onto it he tacked, “If I could send help for you I would. But we both know how this works, don’t we?”

Bill shook his head, pressing his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as he turned around, and wiping at the corner of his eye. There was, of course, no one with him. The emptiness of the kitchen where Jim last stood mocked him. He didn’t know why he had expected otherwise, except for that the silence he found himself in now carried the same hesitance that clung to Jim before his departure, like there was one thing left to say.

This was what he would have to live with, then, for the rest of his life: the ghost of Jim Prideaux, asking with his silence for an answer to why Bill was still alive and he wasn’t.

Heaviness crept into his shoulders as he finished off his drink and made his way back to his room.

 

* * *

 

On his way back inside from where he’d been out in the field with the other boys, playing, a loud roar echoed from near the orchard and froze Bill Roach in his tracks. He glanced around to see if anyone else heard it, but the nearest was a fair twenty metres from him; as usual, he would be the last one arriving back in the building.

Reluctantly, Bill stole a glance over his shoulder towards the orchard. The sun was setting, colouring everything with a hazy dark fog that twisted the lines between the grass and the shadows growing on the sides of the trees and the building. It was still light enough that the space past the field wasn’t entirely swallowed by the darkness, but it wouldn’t stay like that for long. If he wasn’t careful, Bill knew that he would be swallowed too – by the darkness, he thought, or, more worryingly, by whatever made that sound.

He waited for what felt like a long time, a minute at least, before turning back to the school, eager for the solid walls of the school, but as he set his foot a sound tore through him again. It was different, this time, louder and more shrill, but Bill knew that it came from the same place. Again he looked back, this time expecting to see something standing behind him, or perhaps looming out of the darkness, but again he saw nothing.

His eyes skirted around the trees and landed on the space where he knew the Dip was, and where if only it were lighter he would seen Jim Prideaux’s caravan. A coldness flickered through Bill as he thought of Jim, unwillingly remembering the last time they’d seen each other. He didn’t want Bill around anymore, Jim had said, and so Bill, for his part, made himself scarce. It wasn’t long after that that Jim vanished. Bill expected to never see him again and braced himself against this, but Jim returned, quieter and more tired than Bill remembered him, but alive, and despite what Jim had said it only took one look at Jim for Bill to decide that he would need to keep an eye on him.

The dread returned, suddenly, accompanied by a third shriek – this one distinctly more human, and distinctly more pained. At the same time as Bill found himself frozen in place and cold, a tangent thought broke apart from his fear and doubled over, because he heard something else in that scream – someone else’s fear, calling out.

Just the possibility that he might be afraid sent Bill running across the field and towards the orchard, through the mud and into the Dip. In future years he would better define the possessiveness over Jim that solidified in him as he ran, but at the time the only motive he could identify was the horrible urge to know that Jim was okay.

Bill Roach approached the side of the caravan, panting. Only when his hand rested on its side did he hesitate. What if he was wrong to be here? What could he do, if faced with something that could scare Jim Prideaux – or worse, if he was forced to see Jim Prideaux afraid?

But he might be hurt, and again some horrible protectiveness built up inside him and drove him forward. Even the possibility that Jim would just be angry to see him lurking again wasn’t enough to keep him away. His fingers trailed the side of the caravan for support, and through the dark he edged his way through the mud and peered around the side, to where Jim sat in the doorway to the caravan.

What stood out to Bill first was Jim’s arms, and how he had never seen them uncovered before. Without a shirt or jacket to cover his shoulder, Bill could see how it twisted away from the rest of his body and up towards his neck. In his right hand he held a bottle – vodka, he saw, in the dim light from the caravan. His left hand leaned next to him on the caravan floor. His head was raised, and in the dim light from inside the caravan Bill could see his attention fixed on a spot several feet off the ground.

The intensity of Jim’s stare stopped Bill from moving, or even speaking. For a moment he checked to confirm that Jim really was alone, and that there wasn’t someone standing in the shadows that Bill Roach somehow missed upon first glance. He saw no one standing in front of Jim Prideaux, but still could not shake the feeling that he was interrupting something, like how he used to feel when he’d watch from behind the door as his parents fought and made up.

Bill moved his hand back around the corner of the caravan and very slowly made a move to back away, only to be stopped by the force of another scream.

Jim Prideaux flinched. His left hand raised, and for a moment Bill caught a flash of silver in his hand. Then, like a trance was lifted, Jim’s head jerked to his right and his eyes widened.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Someone screamed,” was all Bill could think to say. “Like – like that.”

It was fainter than what he’d heard the first time, and more broken, but it felt no less painful. Even speaking couldn’t seem to dislodge the ringing in his ears.

Jim frowned. He brought his left arm to rest on the caravan floor behind him, like it had a moment before, and he set the bottle on the step by his knee. Roughly, he took hold of the sides of the caravan and pushed himself to his feet, where he stood unsteadily for a moment before fixing Bill with a long expression.

Despite the harrowing atmosphere, Bill knew he would be in trouble for being out so late. He braced himself and waited for what he expected Jim to say, but Jim only sighed.

He rested his injured shoulder against the caravan. “What did you hear?”

“Only that, sir. Someone screaming,” Bill said, and when Jim didn’t react immediately he hesitantly took a step forward, closer to Jim, and asked, “Is someone here? Is someone hurt?”

“There’s no one,” Jim said shortly. “Just – just go back. It’s late, you shouldn’t be out. I thought I told you to stay away from me.”

He waved with one hand in the general direction of the school, but then let his arm fall to his side, defeated.

His eyes hurriedly returned to Jim’s face. Again he had the feeling that he was looking at something he shouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice small. “I’ll leave.”

He meant to, but Jim Prideaux didn’t move and so he remained still. Despite the warm reassurance he felt having Jim within his sights, standing in a pocket of warm light pooling at the front of the caravan, Bill felt strangely cold.

“Sir?” Bill asked. “Sir – are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Jumbo,” he said. “I’m fine. Go. You have class tomorrow.”

 _So do you_ , Bill wanted to say. He wanted to insist he stay, and perhaps if he were a different sort of boy he would have said something different, and been more clear about his intentions. Instead he only bowed his head and edged closer to Jim, all the while aware of how Jim took note of his movements.

“Who were you with?” Bill asked, drawing the last from his finite well of courage to force himself to ask the question.

“No one,” Jim said quickly, but he looked to his left and stared at the same spot where he’d intently been watching when Bill found him, before that horrible scream ripped through them both. “An old friend. Does it matter?”

Again Bill was left feeling that he had intruded on something that perhaps he shouldn’t, but nonetheless he didn’t want to leave. Jim’s shoulders were shaking, perhaps from the strain of leaning on his twisted one combined with the alcohol he’d taken. He looked apologetic. Bill found that sadder and perhaps more frightening than thinking of Jim being afraid himself.

“I’ll leave,” Bill quietly said, but hesitated before he did.

“Go,” Jim finally said. With the arm he wasn’t leaving in he waved, giving Bill a signal. “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow. Just go.”

Bill, who had exhausted all of what he knew to say in situations like this, turned and edged away until he finally rounded the corner. He had already made his mind that he would do something for Jim the next day, and every day after that, if necessary, by the time he turned away from the caravan. As he began the walk back to school, he reluctantly began to turn his thoughts to a good way to explain where he’d been and why he was so late returning.

He only just put the caravan behind him in the clearing when he felt a warm hand give his shoulder a solid squeeze, but when he looked up to see who had done that Bill found no one.

 


End file.
